//------------------------------//
// Lap 2 
// Story: Mother of Wisdom 
// by Acologic 
//------------------------------//

‘Let me through!’

‘Grounds are closed, sorry. I can’t let you in.’

Raffia couldn’t believe it. They’d told him the wrong day. How could they have been so sloppy? He grew less surprised the longer he thought about it. The sport had been tumbling downhill for years. To emerge in an era of decline was just his luck. The grounds rotted. The courses creaked in the wind. It was small wonder that they struggled to schedule a race. ‘At least let me in to practise!’ he snarled. 

‘I can’t let you in.’

‘Then I’m flying in.’

‘I can’t allow that.’ 

‘What are you going to do about it – chase me?’ snorted Raffia. He could finish a lap before this flabby fool so much as took off from the ground. He flew without warning, soared above the stadium and descended into the course. Gritting his teeth, he bolted through rusty hoops. Having to compete in a dump like this was nothing short of a disgrace. 

Raffia grunted as the force of the turn hit. He was wide again, much too wide. He’d won by four, but the stupid corner had crippled him. Corners were a joke. They’d been put there to equalise, which defeated the purpose. The fastest pony was meant to win, deserved to win. Hoops and turns and dips and zips – they were all distractions, impediments, concealments. They should have flown in a straight line, no gimmicks, no ambiguity, and Raffia would have won everything. 

He winced when he clipped the iron. ‘Gah!’ His eyes screwed up and began to water. He slowed and landed, panting, among the seats. He squinted at his flank. A shallow scratch decorated the space beside his cutie mark, the palm tree that so aptly matched his name. His parents often said that ‘Raffia’ had felt right, and time appeared to have proven their instincts correct. Raffia thought it was nonsense. What did a raffia signify? He knew who he was. He was the best. All he needed was to prove it, and he couldn’t do that stuck at home. He’d had to leave.

Raffia snarled, landed and stamped in frustration – the stupid, stupid hoops! He rubbed his flank, glaring at a fresh cut. That they still tolerated iron was a crime. Any course worth its salt used cloud. Did they want him to risk injury? The image of Rainbow Dash saying, ‘Fly better, and you’ll be fine,’ swam into his mind. He gritted his teeth. That mad old mare, she’d had the gall to advise him. Who did she think she was, giving advice when she couldn’t even pass the round of sixteen? She wanted to help? She should have done it in her prime, not snail-slow and podgy. Raffia couldn’t abide arrogance, the most repellant trait in a pony. Still, perhaps she hadn’t been totally wrong when she’d suggested it was in his interest to brush up. These hoops had held him back long enough.

Gently he flew into the turn. He took it at an agonising pace, so slowly that its force displaced barely a hair. He snorted and shook his head. Next came the hoops. He dipped in and out. It was absurdly easy at the speed. What had she said? Try it twenty times. OK, he would give it a go. Besides, if it failed to produce an effect, then he’d know just how spot on he was about Rainbow Dash and her so-called coaching. He slipped through them again and again, yawning by the sixth lap, sighing by the fourteenth, looking at clouds by the last. What else had she said? Try it another twenty times, faster; that was it. He accelerated. He’d grown used to the sight of the hoops and found himself focusing on the course ahead. He slid through them swiftly without a nick. By the fifteenth, he was grinning. He burst into full speed and smacked straight into the metal. 

‘Gh—!’ 

He floundered forward and down, winded, flapping erratically, and landed with a thud. He rolled over, retched and groaned. He lay there, gasping, gathering his thoughts. It was as he’d suspected. The routine was a flop. How could flying slowly make him faster? The moment he’d lost the brakes, he’d stumbled. It was a good job the race had been postponed; otherwise, he’d have fallen to the floor in front of a crowd. In three days he’d be facing the course once more. How would he do it? He supposed he hadn’t crashed at seventy percent, just as Rainbow Dash had predicted – and moving more carefully and succeeding certainly beat flying at full speed and getting hurt. He got to his hooves and decided he’d return before the race for another forty laps.





It was the sinking feeling in her stomach that got to her more than anything – the heavy, enduring certitude that it wouldn’t be her day. No matter how swiftly she beat her wings, no matter how cannily she cut corners, the ponies beside her soon swooped past as though she was little more than an obstacle. She was reduced to pottering along behind them, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t catch up. It left a horrible hollowness, as though nothing mattered anymore. It made Rainbow Dash wonder why she’d bothered in the first place. 

She landed neatly and looked anywhere but the board. She hadn’t finished last, but badly enough. What was the point when she offered no competition? Likely, she brought nothing to a race but publicity and nostalgia. Eggshell nudged her sympathetically. ‘Eighteenth,’ he said. ‘Hard lines.’ Rainbow Dash ripped off her goggles and tossed them aside in disgust. (Eggshell caught them.) It was useless. What was she doing there? 

‘Not an iota of enjoyment,’ she breathed, chest rising and falling. She tossed her mane and drank water greedily. ‘What am I doing, Egg? What am I doing?’

‘You tell me,’ replied Eggshell, passing her a fresh bottle. ‘How do you feel?’ 

‘It’s just debilitating,’ she panted, stretching and wincing. She rubbed her wings. ‘I’m thinking to myself, “You’ve got this,” and then a moment later, “Forget about this; it’s going nowhere.”’ She licked her lips and sighed. ‘For years and years, I used to blast a course in practice. And now, under pressure, when things are going wrong –’ She trailed off. ‘You put in a bit more effort, and somehow that makes everything worse. My sprint isn’t straight. It’s my left wing – it’s slightly out of sync with my right, and that kills your speed. When you’re young,’ she snorted, ‘it’s fine; you fly through it. But now –’ She puffed out her cheeks. ‘And the young ones, they’re alright. Their coaching pays attention to that sort of thing. So, there’s another disadvantage.’ She sniffed.

‘Your technique’s off?’ 

‘Off. Gone. Never there.’ Rainbow Dash shrugged. ‘It’s the effort. Somehow I just veer off to the left a fraction. And it – it’s – well, it’s debilitating,’ she repeated. ‘My bad sprint is accidental left-wing slant, so I’m slower on the straights. And I’m fighting against that, but in the meantime everypony’s beating me anyway. And the moment I try to stop slanting, I slant even more.’ 

‘So, it’s a technical issue,’ said Eggshell.

‘Yeah, but there’s no point, Egg; don’t bother. “What am I doing wrong that I used to do right?”’ But Rainbow Dash knew full well that, perhaps, it wasn’t just about her. There were ponies who flew to a higher standard. But still she beat herself up trying to work out how to get better than she was. And how could she? She’d been flying for too long. Could she jump up another level? What was she supposed to do? Go to the gym? Practise more after all? What was she supposed to practise? She’d worked on technique before, changing this feather’s position and that one’s. Had it ever really made a difference?

Eggshell was watching her again. ‘How does it feel?’ he asked. ‘No longer being “the special one”?’ Rainbow Dash grinned. He was no sycophant and appreciated the silliness of the situation, the bizarre dilemma, her love-hate-hate relationship with racing.

 ‘I used to enjoy being special, ponies talking about me being the favourite. Took it for granted.’ 

‘Because you were special from the moment you started.’

‘But then it’s gone,’ said Rainbow Dash. ‘I was used to ponies saying, “Oh, Rainbow Dash’ll win this, and she’ll win that. Rainbow Dash is the best in Equestria. Rainbow Dash is world champion. She’s number one.” All of a sudden it becomes, “Oh, Rainbow Dash, she’s – oh, she can’t fly anymore. She isn’t the same pony anymore. She’ll never win another tournament. She’s slipping down the rankings.” All that positive feedback for so much of your life. And, suddenly, it’s all negative. Constantly.’ She chuckled. ‘And then you lose another race, and it’s, “Oh, she’s gone.” You realise how that positivity – it feeds you. It builds your confidence. But you eat the negative too, like it or not, and it’s keeping me down.’ She sighed. Eggshell nodded approvingly.

‘Let it out,’ he said. ‘That’s the way. Don’t let it fester.’ Rainbow Dash smiled. He was right. It was funny – he never presumed to coach her, just listened and held her to account. And that helped her feel so much better about it all. The weight had passed already, and but for the pain across her body, she almost felt ready to race again. ‘Heads up,’ he added, stepping backward. ‘Press.’

The lights, mics and cameras had caught up with her. ‘Ms Dash! Ms Dash!’ She stretched her neck, cracked her hooves and faced them.





Eggshell enjoyed watching racing with Rainbow Dash. For a coach (for anypony, really) it was something of a treat. Every now and then he got to hear the insight, the knowledge that only a professional who’d done it at the highest level possessed – tiny, seemingly insignificant details that, after a long time in the game, you realised could make all the difference. The moment the latest race finished, she leaned over and said, ‘Horizon’s looking great on the turn. It’s the stretch he gets from those big wings of his; he slides through the air like an eagle. The control that ponies have these days, it’s another level entirely.’

That was another thing he liked about her. In the right mood, she spoke so generously about her rivals – even though she was struggling and losing. Plainly, it hurt. It was a unique position: to have been the best one day and to have woken up the next with what, by comparison, must have felt like nothing. She dealt with the situation better than he thought he could have. But that was the point. Rainbow Dash was an exceptional pony, and whatever they did, they always took you by surprise.

‘How does it feel watching the next generation?’ asked Eggshell. He asked a lot about her feelings. He thought it was important, even vital in her case. For the most part, coaching was four things: skill, physicality, mentality and reality. When Eggshell took on a prospect, they had to be either fit as a fiddle or prepared to become so. Only afterward did he hone their craft. With Rainbow Dash, the first two didn’t apply. Likely, she had forgotten more about flying than he would ever know. As to her conditioning, he couldn’t ask more of a middle-aged mare except for a spot of weight loss. But Rainbow Dash didn’t want to train as she had. Normally, he wouldn’t have taken no for an answer, but this wasn’t some lazy up-and-comer; this was an ex-number-one gone to seed who couldn’t put it down. The goals were different.

That was where mentality came in. What were Rainbow Dash’s goals? Why did she do it? What did she expect from herself? What could she reasonably expect? Eggshell questioned her, even pestered her for answers. Usually, he got them, and the picture they painted he found touching; he felt a lot of affection for her. Here was this once-mighty titan of the sport, a winner in every sense of the word, with talent, wealth, fame and happiness, and then time had played its trick. She had aged. She had slowed. She couldn’t compete with the best, not anymore, and nature was cruel: though the body changed, the heart stayed the same. Behind the rounding face remained a champion, and the world was telling her, ‘No.’ His job, if he had any, was to be there for her, to lend an ear, to show her the streets remembered and to remind her that she was worth something. That, for all the pain she’d shown, seemed to keep her going. And perhaps it was enough. Reality, after all, meant taking into account the bigger picture, recognising the can and can’ts. If he had helped bring her closer to making peace with herself, then he considered their time together not only a success but wonderfully spent.

‘It’s hard sometimes,’ replied Rainbow Dash.

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah. I just think –’ She sighed. ‘Maybe I just wasn’t that good.’ 

‘Don’t say that; I watched you. You were dominant.’

‘I was,’ she admitted, ‘but there wasn’t anypony around to challenge me. No disrespect to Soarin, Fleetfoot and Spitfire,’ she continued, ‘but the general standard wasn’t as high as you might think. It’s always improved; it’s gone up.’

‘You were winning by six.’ 

‘Well, obviously, I was head and shoulders above the rest as a racer,’ she said. ‘But timing’s important.’ She shrugged. ‘Right place, right time?’

‘Come on, give yourself more credit than that. You said it yourself. You were clocked the fastest ever.’ But he knew Rainbow Dash didn’t care about what she’d done. She cared about what she would do, never resting on her laurels. Eggshell respected that. What a shame she’d fallen in no-mare’s land, trapped between the pony she was and the pony she had been. If he could have convinced her to try something else, he would have. Instead, he felt compelled to talk to her about it. She carried a lot of baggage that needed unpacking. ‘What was more disappointing?’ he asked, changing tack. ‘The final with Spitfire or the one with Lightning Dust? Which hurt you more?’ 

‘Well,’ said Rainbow Dash, ‘looking at how I dealt with it, the fact that I was no longer the best racer in the world, losing to Lightning Dust was by far the worse. Because I then had to deal with –’ She stopped and pondered. ‘Well, put it this way,’ she began. ‘At one time in my career, I had all the cookies locked up in my own little jar. Next minute they were spilled on the floor, and Lightning Dust had them all.’ She paused. ‘So for most of my life I haven’t liked her at all – hated her. Hated the thought of her being better than me. Didn’t even want to acknowledge she existed.’ She sighed. ‘Losing to Spitfire was a shock and awful, but I got over it because I probably thought I was better than her. But Lightning Dust? All of a sudden I had massive problems. Because I thought she was better than me,’ she finished.

‘Let’s say she was. Does that devalue what you achieved?’

Rainbow Dash grimaced. ‘No, but –’

‘But?’

She sighed again. ‘It feels bad. Heavy. It weighs on you. I don’t know.’

The next race brightened her up. She seemed keen to see Raffia fly, the troublemaker from the Canterlot Open, who entered his stall with a scowl. ‘Oh, here we go!’ said Rainbow Dash. ‘Bet you a coffee that he finishes in the top five!’ 

‘Of who’s racing, he’s ranked fifth-highest.’

‘OK, then, the top three.’ 

‘You’re on.’ Eggshell presumed that she saw a bit of herself in him. She must have related to his talent. But even at the peak of her powers, Rainbow Dash had never been rude or dismissive; she had welcomed every challenger. Raffia, on the other hoof, struck him as a poser – bags of ability but no hunger.

The starting horn blared, and the racers exploded into the sky. The first section of the course pointed straight as an arrow, and Eggshell saw at once why Rainbow Dash felt so excited. Raffia’s horsepower had propelled him to the front in a flash. At the corner he flew wide, and two ponies zipped past. He caught them quickly enough and, as the hoops loomed, sneaked ahead. ‘He’s in for a flankful of iron,’ predicted Eggshell. Only he was wrong. Raffia slowed slightly and passed them without incident. Rainbow Dash grinned. 

‘I think he might actually have practised!’ she said enthusiastically. It took another lap to convince Eggshell. Sure enough, Raffia whooshed through them cleanly, still in the lead. ‘Final lap!’ cried Rainbow Dash, on her hooves again, eyes wider than her grin, like a filly at a fair. The sight made him feel warm inside. He smiled.

Come the final sprint, Raffia had pulled even farther ahead; but Eggshell was aware of the last corner, and if the pattern held, he’d slide widely enough for overtaking. It would be close. ‘Oh, top three for sure!’ Rainbow Dash was saying. Eggshell could imagine the scowl and the gritted teeth as Raffia careered sideways on the turn. One pony had caught him up. It was going to be very close. ‘That’s a joke, that,’ remarked Rainbow Dash a moment later, shaking her head. Raffia had finished in second place. ‘If you’re making your turns like that, it’s hopeless.’ She watched him throw away his goggles and stamp. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘if I can do one thing right, it’s cut a corner thinner than a slice of bread.’ She stepped toward the tunnel. Eggshell raised an eyebrow. 

‘You’re going down to him?’ 

‘To the showers,’ replied Rainbow Dash. ‘He’ll be there.’





Raffia waited for the sound of water to stop, the sound of hoofsteps to pass, the sound of the door swinging shut. He kicked open his cubicle and marched into the showers, breathing heavily. He wasn’t tired, but he was angry. Stupid, stupid turn! He’d spent so much time worrying about the hoops that he’d been found out by the corner. Then a voice in his head said, ‘At least you never crashed.’ True, he’d avoided that humiliation; indeed, if he’d ignored Rainbow Dash, he’d’ve been fuming at a lot worse than second place. Simultaneously, he was glad he’d had the nous to recognise what was good for him. That’s who he was, a clever racer – the best. 

He stabbed the button and stepped into the hot water. Really, racing was a misnomer. ‘Sabotage’ suited better. He wondered whether they’d pull the same tricks at the Masters. Surely, they would. There’d be corners, hoops, tunnels and slaloms – dirty tricks. He gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t let them ruin his chance to shine. But how would he stop them? Raffia liked to think of himself as a realist, and the truth was nothing would change just because he wished it. Still, having to race on their terms boiled the blood. After all, what authority should a cabal of promoters and sponsors have had over him? In a straight race he could beat anypony, and everypony wanted to see that. Certainly, nopony wanted to see obstacles that reduced speed and excitement. But such were the terms if he wanted a tour card, and no tour card meant no money. As much as he hated to admit it (because Raffia believed sport should be kept pure), racing was his source of income as much as it was his love. If he broke their rules or made a stand, they’d rob him. There was nothing for it but to race tough, tougher than ever, and hope for the best. Even with their schemes, they wouldn’t keep him down. He would fly into greatness one way or another. Just then it had to be the hard way.

The door swung open and, despite the temperature of the water, Raffia felt a shiver down his spine. He cursed inwardly the idiot who had thought shared showers a good idea. It wasn’t as though there’d be much talk, but even seeing another pony in the place he washed himself made him uncomfortable. That was why he waited for the others to finish. He blinked through the cascade at the newcomer, walking slowly into the room. It was Rainbow Dash. She set her goggles on the floor and chose a tap. Strangely, Raffia felt less bothered now that he knew it was her. He guessed that was due to gratitude. Although he’d done the work, she’d made him aware of the work that had needed doing. He caught her eye and saw she was smiling. Normally, he’d have scowled. He couldn’t let ponies think him weak or unfocused. But he’d taken a lecture from her already so knew what to expect if she got annoyed. Somehow, in light of this, he felt content to give her a curt nod in return.

‘Your corner game’s an absolute disgrace,’ said Rainbow Dash rather sweetly once her water was on. Raffia felt his brow furrow. He opened his mouth, prepared to snarl. Then he stopped. He nearly sniggered. She was absolutely right. It was a disgrace. It wasn’t his fault, of course; he was self-taught, for pony’s sake! What did his parents know about racing? So little that any contribution from them would have been a hindrance. No, all things considered, he was leagues above where he should have been – but since he’d just spent half-an-hour beating himself up about it, he could only agree. His corner game was an absolute disgrace.

‘Instead of flapping your wings like there’s no tomorrow,’ continued Rainbow Dash, her voice back to normal, ‘how about spreading them? You know how a bird does it? Glide and tilt. You shift your weight and turn like you’re in orbit. You put the speed before and after, never during – and,’ she added, ‘keep your head still.’

Why was she telling him this? What was she after? What was she doing there? He was trying to wash! Then he remembered she had just raced too. But that was twice in a row she’d stayed behind, and this time the goggles were no excuse. 

‘I can show you if you like,’ suggested Rainbow Dash. She was looking at him expectantly. He felt his face grow warmer. What did she want from him? What was he supposed to say? By all appearances, she had just offered to help, but ponies didn’t offer help without expecting something in exchange. It clicked. She was trying to sabotage her competition. Of course. It all made sense. He opened his mouth to say so, then stopped a second time. Except it didn’t make sense. She wasn’t a racer; she was a has-been. She’d already achieved everything he wanted to and, in any case, was too old and too out-of-shape ever to threaten on a course again. Was this an attack by proxy? No, that was far-fetched. She had warned him about the hoops, and it had spared his blushes. But ponies, especially mares, didn’t just help for nothing. They just didn’t. 

‘Come on, Raffia, I don’t bite.’

He had no idea what to say. He merely stared. He must have looked like an idiot. Raffia couldn’t let her think he was an idiot, but she didn’t seem to think ill of him at all. When she had called him out, there had been needle, anger, frustration. This time he could perceive only a smile and an offer to show him how to cut a corner. If it had been anypony else, he’d have left. But he felt he owed her. It was a strange feeling. He wasn’t sure he liked it very much. 

‘Well, at least try and do what I said,’ finished Rainbow Dash. She busied herself with her mane. Raffia realised he hadn’t yet touched the soap. Instead of reaching for it, he said, 

‘I did.’  

‘Eh?’ grunted Rainbow Dash through a faceful of hair. 

‘What you said. The hoops. It saved me today.’

Rainbow Dash grinned. ‘Yeah, I noticed. You see? And that’s such an easy routine, but it’s little things like that – they make a difference. And if you pile them up and work at it, what a difference it makes.’ 

Raffia liked the sound of that – clever, logical. He planned his races. He timed his accelerations and knew when to sprint. But he hadn’t thought of stacking practice routines to achieve a composite effect. He looked at her with fresh eyes. Fools, it seemed, didn’t become world champions. ‘You said you’d show me?’ he found he’d blurted. Fool! He would look needy. Rainbow Dash didn’t seem as though she thought he was needy. On the contrary, she lit up. With a full grin and fire in her gaze, the years receded a little. 

‘I’d love to show you! Because, with respect, you need it,’ she added apologetically. Raffia’s eyes narrowed slightly. She was cheeky. ‘Your sprint? It’s –’ She chef’s-kissed. ‘I was watching, and you fly – well, as fast as I ever flew; there’s no doubt about it. But the corners. The corners. But don’t worry! I’ll show you.’

‘When?’

‘Whenever you like!’ She grinned. ‘I’m just delighted you’re up for it!’

Raffia couldn’t stop himself. ‘Because I’m “wasting my talent”.’ Rainbow Dash waved it away. 

‘I was angry. I say things. Look.’ She fixed him with a stare. ‘I don’t really know you. I’m just saying what I see. And the racer at the Canterlot Open looked underprepared – and arrogant.’ She grimaced and nodded. ‘Sorry, but arrogant! And I know all about arrogance. Believe me, I was the same. So,’ she said, slowing down, ‘I know how it feels to think you’re the best.’ She paused. She smiled. ‘It so happened I was the best. You could be the best. Easily. Actually,’ she said, her grin replaced by a sincere, serious expression. ‘With your talent? I think you could be one of the best ever.’ 

Raffia couldn’t believe his ears. It was as though she knew everything he’d ever wanted to hear, and it was coming from the mouth of a pony who’d won all there was to win. He wouldn’t have cared if she’d been three times as fat. The notion that an ex-champion deemed him a serious prospect had taken him so strongly by surprise that, for one dreadful moment, he thought he could feel forming a tear. Thank goodness they were in the showers.

‘You have to work at it, though, because nothing comes overnight,’ Rainbow Dash was saying. ‘I think with some proper good coaching, you’d be astonishing.’ 

‘Coaching,’ muttered Raffia.

‘Your weakness is obvious,’ said Rainbow Dash. ‘You’re so used to that raw power that you rely on it for everything, but you have to learn the ins and outs of a course. What you need to do is get to grips with the way courses are set up. The hoops you’ve started. OK, great. Then you do the corners, then the tunnels, zips, bounces, all the rest of it. Racing evolved from what we did as Wonderbolts. It isn’t just flying as fast as you can in a straight line. It’s a spectacle. Ponies want to see something beautiful. As a racer, you’re as much an artist, a dancer, as you are a speedster. There’s a craft, a tradition. And what excites me about you is you’re still so young!’ She beamed at him. ‘You’ve got time to learn it all!’

She spoke so quickly and so earnestly that it was intoxicating. Images of himself winning races, lifting trophies and celebrating wildly whizzed through his mind – familiar, of course, but this time they instilled a trembling anticipation. Standing beside Rainbow Dash, so enthused, Raffia felt as though it was truly achievable. Hoops, corners, tricks – they wouldn’t stop him, because he would know exactly how to handle them! Then, as quickly as the feeling had arrived, it left. He shivered. It sounded like an awful lot of work.

If Rainbow Dash could sense his turmoil, she wasn’t letting on. ‘When’s your next race?’ she asked. Raffia blinked. When was his next race? 

‘A week’s time. Then –’ His stomach sank. ‘Then it’s the Masters,’ he mumbled.

‘Oh, you’re in the Masters?’ said Rainbow Dash, surprised. ‘How come?’ 

‘Wildcard.’ 

‘Ah! Oh, good. Oh, great! Oh, that’s perfect!’ Rainbow Dash was almost dancing on the spot. ‘Oh, you lucky little –! The Masters, at your age? This is it, then; let me tell you! We’ll get your corners sorted and do a bit of everything. But that’s the main thing, your turns. We fix your turns, and you might – oh, imagine if you won it. Can you imagine? I mean, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, but –’ She grinned into the distance (the changing rooms). ‘This is some lucky chance, our meeting, eh?’ She leaned across and clapped him firmly on the shoulder. He shuddered; his mind grew numb. It was too much.

But Rainbow Dash made it so very easy. As they showered, she asked him questions – small talk. He couldn’t abide small talk as a rule, but just then it was welcome; it kept the pressure at bay.

‘How long have you lived in Canterlot?’

‘About a year.’

‘Alone?’

‘Alone.’

‘At your age! Your parents, do you see much of them?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t want to.’ 

‘Why?’

It was a good question. Why did Raffia avoid them? He supposed it was because he’d never thought them good enough, and since he was trying to be the best, he didn’t have time for ponies who weren’t good enough. It had sounded right at the time. He wasn’t so sure anymore. 

‘I like doing things on my own.’ 

‘Yeah, that’s the way,’ said Rainbow Dash approvingly. ‘As a racer, you can’t be too pally. You have friends away from the game, of course, but when you’re working – you know, you’re there to do a job. Lightning Dust was the same. And Spitfire. When it came to racing we were the loners, if you will. Didn’t mingle. And you need that.’ She clapped her hooves together to underline the point. ‘You need to be constantly on it.’

Raffia looked at her. Could he ask her? ‘What do you think went wrong?’

Instead of eliciting a frown, it forced Rainbow Dash’s grin wider still. ‘What do I think went wrong? I blame myself that ponies started beating me, but it may have been the fact –’ She chuckled. ‘It may have been the fact that they were better than me and that it was always going to happen. But,’ she continued, ‘I blame my own technique. And coaches.’ She snorted. ‘Coaches are a bad thing. Not in the way you might think,’ she added, laughing at the look on Raffia’s face. ‘Because my sprint was so quick, I wasn’t paying enough attention to the way my wings moved. And my coach helped me; she brought good form in, proper posture, and for a while it worked.’ She tossed her wet mane. ‘But then you slip back or into something worse. And I went from Spinner, to Vortex, to Candles – and everypony’s changing me – and by the end, by the last few years of my career, I didn’t have a clue which way to fly. And then you develop what they call “the yips”, where you just don’t know anymore how to fly as you did.’ She shook her head and sighed, but she was smiling. ‘But you don’t need to worry about that,’ she went on. ‘Eggshell and me, we don’t sweat the details.’

‘Eggshell?’

‘My coach.’ She snorted again. ‘Yeah, another one. But he’s the right kind.’ She smiled. ‘Anyway,’ she said, looking at him. ‘You let me know when you’re ready, and we’ll get those corners sorted.’

Raffia had nothing to say as Rainbow Dash picked up her goggles and left. He was much too astonished by deep, foreign feelings of sadness, sympathy and gratitude.